


Vulcan

by Rosie_Rues



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-11
Updated: 2009-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:36:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to a challenge at Camelot Fleet to write them into your own home town. Here's Aldershot. Arthur does not approve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vulcan

Arthur turns up unannounced in mid-July, banging impatiently on Merlin's window when he's slow to open the door.

"You better have clean sheets on your spare bed," he says as Merlin blinks at him. "Good God, Merlin, have you forgotten how to dress yourself?"

"Wuh?" says Merlin, who has only been awake for ten minutes and has spent nine of those searching his cupboards in the hope that he might find an emergency stash of coffee. He hurriedly pulls up his sagging tracksuit bottoms and shakes his head, hoping it will dispell the mirage. But, no, Arthur Pendragon is still leaning on his doorframe, golden hair shining in the bright summer sun, glaring at Merlin as if he expects better.

"You need to ask me in," he says, all exaggerated patience.

Merlin wakes up a bit more. "Wait, what? You can't just turn up here and expect to stay-"

"Yes, I can," Arthur says, shouldering past him. "Honestly, Merlin, I don't know why you're worried. It's not as if you have a woman here."

"I might have!" Merlin protested.

Arthur turned round to look at him. "You don't, do you?"

"I could have."

"I rather doubt that" Arthur starts, but then the flat begins to shake. The windows bounce and rattle in their frames, dirty plates go dancing across the side and Merlin could swear that his brain is jolting around his skull. Arthur's shouting something at him, grinning widely as he strides back out of the door. Merlin follows him out onto the terrace, where he finds Arthur scanning the cloudy sky. He's not the only one - everyone in the carpark below has stopped dead, and the little girl next door has one foot in her paddling pool, her face screwed up as she stares into the sky.

Then, so close that he can see the patterns pianted on its underside, the plane comes over, scaring the ubiquitous starlings off the roofs, birds sweeping around them like leaves caught in the wind.

Once the noise has died down, Merlin manages to yell, "What the hell was that?"

"The Vulcan!" Arthur yells back, gesturing. "Only one still flying!"

"The airshow's this week," says Merlin blankly, and gets a look he recognises from Arthur, the old pity-the-idiot look. And, right, here he is one town away from a major airshow, and here is Arthur Pendragon, the ex-housemate from hell, with his engineering degree and obsession with fighter jets, and-

"Don't you work for an aeronautics company?"

Arthur looked a little shifty. "I don't know what you're talking about, Merlin."

"And don't Pendragon have an exhibit at Farnborough?"

"I don't know what you mean, and even if I did, I'm on holiday. Spending my time with an old friend."

"Weren't you invited?" Merlin asks, incredulous.

Arthur looks like he might argue. Then his shoulders fall and he admits, "My father took Morgana instead."

Back in their uni days, Merlin used to hide from Uther Pendragon in the cupboard under the stairs, giving Arthur the chance for much hilarity and an unending flow of Harry Potter jokes. He wished then, and does again now, that he had the power to curse Uther for the damage he has inflicted on his brilliant, fucked-up children. He knows better to say so, ever, so just suggests, as brightly as he can, "We could get you a ticket to the public events."

"I'm not going as a bloody tourist!" Arthur protests. "Really, Merlin. I thought I'd watch it from here."

"There's a few buildings in the way," Merlin points out, gesturing at the shopping centre which fills the sky.

"I told you to rent something better than this."

There's another growing roar, though this one doesn't threaten to break any windows. Merlin rolls his eyes and leaves Arthur to it. He's obviously here to stay, so Merlin needs to do something about the spare bed, which is currently serving him as an artful combination of sofa, bookshelf, laundry pile and streamlined filing system (bills go on the bed, junk mail under it).

Later, once he's actually managed to get dressed and stumble out to buy coffee, he remembers that he owns a couple of deckchairs and takes them outside. He tunes the radio in the kitchen to the official air show station so they can hear what's arriving (though Arthur scoffs and claims he could do it on sight alone). He's got a book and a cup of coffee, so he pretends to read while Arthur lectures him. Later on, inspiration strikes and he phones Gwen. She's got a bike she's not using and claims she knows the perfect spot on the towpath, opposite the end of the runway. They can do that tomorrow.

Later, the sky begins to darken. Arthur goes out for takeaway and comes back astounded at the sheer number of policemen, civilian and military, filling the streets.

"It's just a normal Thursday," Merlins tells him knowledgeably. "Thursdays are always violent. I think it's an army thing."

"Why do you live here again?"

"I like it," Merlin says, gesturing vaguely at the surrounding buildings, the terraces full of potted plants, the sunset reflected in the block of flats to his right, the steep red roofs with their roosting birds. "I mean, yeah, it's a bit rough and dirty, and there was that guy who got attacked with a machete in the pub down the road, and there's always people pissing in the alley, but it's friendly and nobody's, y'know, totally up themselves."

"Oh. My. God," Arthur says, drawing out each word. "Get a better job, idiot, so you can move out. In fact, let me get you a better job."

"I like my job. And I like it here. There's this shop round the corner, and they've got a secret room upstairs with an example of every military uniform they've ever made on display."

"Is that the extent of local culture and history?"

"Well, we've got a gun on a roundabout," Merlin tells him, mock-serious. "And some bloody good Indian restaurants, because of the Gurkhas. And there was a parade the other week with a marching band and a woman dressed as Queen Victoria. This place has character."

"So do most prison inmates."

"Snob."

"Idiot."

The usual shrieks and bellows of a town-centre evening soon begin, even as the stars begin to show dimly. The light from the kitchen streams out, and Merlin retunes the radio to music and grabs a couple of beers from the fridge. They lie down on the sun-warmed roof, listening to police cars circle the one-way system. Arthur's knuckles brush against his as they both reach for the same beer.

"Y'know," Merlin says at last. "The spare room's pretty noisy. Being at the front."

"Yeah?" Arthur says, and Merlin can hear his smile.

"Yeah," Merlin says and leaves it at that. Tomorrow they'll cycle down the canal path, under the green shadows of the trees, and next week they can sit here again and watch the Red Arrows draw miraculous shapes across the sky, and maybe Arthur will stay a little longer and maybe Merlin will look for a new job, but right now there's nothing to do but lie here, listening to the shouts below, the music from within and the steady sound of Arthur breathing beside him.  



End file.
